


Smoke and Mirrors

by Niphredilien



Series: Fëanorian Week 2021 [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Being Overshadowed By Ones Father, Beta'd, Established Relationship, Hallucinations, M/M, Mirrors, Taunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-26 12:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30105735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niphredilien/pseuds/Niphredilien
Summary: “I’m my own person,” Curufin says to the mirror.His face stares back, looking far too like his father for his words to be at all convincing.Curufin is not quite as OK after his imprisonment as he makes out to his family.
Relationships: Curufin | Curufinwë & Fëanor | Curufinwë, Curufin | Curufinwë/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Series: Fëanorian Week 2021 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2203863
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	Smoke and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> For day 5 of Fëanorian Week, I chose the prompt Fëanor. This oneshot was hanging around my head since I first started writing this series back in January, so I am very glad to be sharing it with you all!
> 
> Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta’ing.
> 
> TW - Hallucinations, something like a panic attack I think.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

| Fëanor |

“I’m my own person,” Curufin says to the mirror.

His face stares back, looking far too like his father for his words to be at all convincing.

“I’m my _own_ person,” He says again more forcefully. His face crinkles into a frown that makes himself look even more like Fëanor.

His fingers dig into the dresser and there is a creak of wood as he leans forward, closer to the glass. He startles at the noise in the near silence of the bedroom and looks sharply at the bed but Finrod is asleep and doesn’t hear.

He turns his head away and stares at his reflection in the mirror.

It stares back.

He wants to tell it again that he’s his own person – he is not Fëanor’s clone but someone else in his own right.

“But that’s not true, is it _Curufinwë_?”

His back tenses as he hears the familiar, creeping voice.

“Curufinwë Atarinkë.” Sauron sounds amused. Curufin _knows_ he isn’t there – if Sauron could make his way into the middle of Hithlum, the city would have fallen long ago. He wouldn’t come just to torment him. And yet… “Little Father. Even your mother knew you would be nothing more than a miniature of your scion.”

The springs on the bed creak, as if someone is standing. It is just Finrod turning in bed. It _must_ only be Finrod turning in bed. Curufin squeezes his eyes shut.

“And Curufinwë…your father must have not thought you worth your own name. After all, you barely even count as a knock off of the original.” Fingers – _no, it’s just the wind_ – ghost over his neck and Curufin flinches away.

Sauron is not there and they are lies and he is _his own person_ -

He opens his eyes and Sauron stands behind his image in the mirror. His face is turned up in a perfectly controlled grin and his eyes are slit like a cats. Curufin is frozen for a moment in stark fear before his instincts kick in.

He grabs a pair of scissors from the dresser and swings around, aiming for where he knows Sauron’s neck is, but he’s gone.

 _He was never there_ , Curufin corrects sharply, dropping the scissors with a soft clunk. He strides over to the open window and shuts it sharply, the breeze blowing through the room cutting off abruptly. He draws the curtains, shutting out the early light of dawn that must have been playing tricks on his eyes.

He comes back to the mirror.

“I am not my father,” He says, tensing his jaw. “And you _won’t_ be comparing him to me anymore.”

His reflection refuses to comply to his wishes and he frowns.

He has a sudden idea and picks the scissors back up and cuts his braid neatly at the nape of his neck. He looks over the hair in his hands for a long moment, scrutinising it carefully, before swallowing and putting the scissors and long plait onto the dresser.

He looks back up at his reflection and hisses angrily, his face contorting into a snarl. His hair is still long in the glass, albeit free of any ties, hanging around his face in a long curtain.

There is a moment where he is completely and utterly furious, in which he sees red and punches the mirror.

It doesn’t shatter but cracks shoot out from where his fist met the glass and shards fall off onto the floor or dig into the backs of his fingers.

He sobs, sinking slowly to the floor, cradling his bloody hand close to his chest and quietly mumbling “Not him, not him, not him,” to himself.

“Mmm…Curvo, is it morning already?” Finrod mumbles from the bed.

Curufin freezes, forcing himself silent so as not to bother his betrothed with his petty worries, but he can’t quite quiet his quick, shaky breaths.

“Curvo, where…?” There’s a rustle of fabric and Finrod sits up. “What…Curvo, what’s wrong?”

He slips out of bed and pads towards him with bare feet, concern written over his face.

“Glass,” Curufin says dully in warning.

The feet he can see in his peripheral vision still before turning away and a moment later, Finrod is beside him, clad in slippers and slips a blanket over most of the broken glass. He makes no mention of Curufin’s shorn hair as he gently helps him to his feet and leads him back to their bed.

“Do you want your book?” Finrod asks, glancing over his shoulder as he kneels by the glowing embers of the fire to light the candle that lives by their bed. “Or some tea? Or anything?”

Curufin does not answer. Finrod lies the book Curufin has been reading (and quite happily mocking) on the blanket beside him anyway.

He bustles away, finding a brush from somewhere and clearing up the shards of broken glass littering the floor, humming some cheery melody as he does so.

Curufin watches him work.

He turns towards the door – maybe to find some of the aforementioned tea, maybe for some other reason, but panic rises at the idea of Finrod leaving for however long.

“No!” Curufin exclaims, sounding too desperate to his ears and involuntarily reaching out. He clenches his hand to his chest as Finrod turns around in mild surprise.

He must read something in Curufin’s face because he softens, slipping off his slippers and climbing back into the bed. Curufin shuffles up towards him, accepting the arm wrapped around him and tucking himself into Finrod’s chest.

Finrod presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “I love you.”

Curufin curls up closer, listening to Finrod’s steady breathing and the soft pattering of his heart.

“Do you ever-” He begins and stops, trying to think of a better way to frame his question. “Do you ever think why your mother gave you your father’s amilessë?”

“Probably because it was a name that suited us both – and it’s quite a nice name, pity for only one person to have it. And I’m certainly Ñoldor even with my Telerin and Vanyarin decent. Haven’t ever really thought on it. Why’d you ask?”

“No reason.” He takes in a few steady breaths. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Quenya Translations:  
> Amilessë - Mother-Name


End file.
